Silver Creek
by Lizbug
Summary: Sometimes you meet your destiny on the path you took to avoid it. Sequel to my story Instinct. Concrit welcome. It is Dean's first hunt since the skinwalker attack. Something has its hunting grounds in Silver Creek, Minnesota and he and his dad are there to stop it. How will his new circumstance affect Dean? Crossover with Stargate SG-1. 2nd in "The Siren Call" series.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

Silver Creek, Minnesota. August 1994

Jack awoke in darkness, the sour burn of whiskey in his throat and his head pounding in time with his pulse. He groaned, low in his chest, and struggled to rise; only to stop when his alcohol soaked brain realised it was already upright.

He grunted in confusion and tried to move his arms. They were bound; in fact he was suspended from them. _Not good_, the thought whispered across his consciousness. He glanced around, a little thankful at the lack of light, for the sake of his thumping hangover.

A small whimper came from his six and he froze, becoming more alert as the adrenaline started to flood his system. "Is somebody there?" The feminine voice came from behind him and he tried to twist on his wrists. The darkness span lazily until his sense of direction told him he'd done a 180. "Hello?" he said his voice rough.

The woman started crying, choked sobs spilling forth with great gasps of air. _Oh crap_. "Where are we?" he asked, only to wince at the answering wail, "I don't know! We were out camping in the woods and that…that thing came and…and now Stacey's gone and…" the words dissolved into sobs. _Gone where?_ Jack's eyes must have finally been adjusting to the low light because the black was slowly resolving into shapes.

Jack had to bite back a laugh, he was hanging from his wrists in an abandoned mine shaft with a woman who, now that he could actually see her, could pass for Lori Petty. _Just wait till I tell Charlie_, he thought before he ruthlessly choked it down. For a moment he was drowning in the grief that had swallowed the past four months. He heard a skittering behind him and dragged himself back up from the abyss.

Jack turned again, just in time for a greyish blur to rush past him, knocking his shoulder and causing him to sway uncontrollably. His head span, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the packed earth of the shaft as screams rang in his ears. He finally regained his footing just as the screaming stopped, "What the hell was that?" Jack looked around wildly, there was no way that he just saw what he thought he did. _Emaciated, hunched figure, grey skin and six inch claws_ his mind whispered traitorously. "Hey! What _was_ that?" Silence, Jack twisted to face the girl again and had to swallow back the bile that surged into his mouth. She'd been…_eaten_ his intuition supplied only to be dismissed by a more rational part of his brain. _Oh yeah, definitely time to go._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

Silver Creek, Minnesota. August 1994

Dean stretched the kinks out of his spine, wrinkling his nose a little at the pungent scents of male sweat and stale alcohol seeping from the bar next to the motel his dad was heading into. They had made good time from Bobby's, reaching Silver Creek Minnesota just after dark. It hadn't taken long to find a suitable place for them to stay while they were in town but already the bar was a hive of activity.

Dean watched the patrons as they meandered around the deck that surrounded the timber building. They looked like typical outdoors types, hunters (little h) and fishermen, meaning he and his dad could slot right in with the crowd.

He scented the air gently, the tantalising odour of cooking meat making his stomach growl as he picked it out from among the myriad odours of the place. It had been just over a month since he'd been bitten by a skin-walker while on a hunt and he was still getting used to his heightened senses. Bobby swore up and down that Dean wasn't dangerous and that skin-walkers had to _choose_ to hurt people but Dean was still wary about some of his more predatory instincts. This was the first time Dad had brought him on a hunt since and he was determined to show him nothing had changed.

A tingle worked its way up his spine as he considered the coming hunt but Dean pushed it down again, the last thing he needed was to change forms in front of a bunch of civilians. He shifted uncomfortably, at Bobby's the whole skin-walker had been easy. They'd figured out that as long he changed about once a week the urge didn't get too strong, he'd even started to enjoy his dog form. Padding around at Sammy's heels as a german shepherd getting cooed over and petted wherever he went was a blast. He didn't even have to worry about people noticing he wasn't around all the time, Bobby always had a dog or two and Dean had just blended in. But now that he was finally back hunting the urge to change was really pushing at him. The hunt obviously tapped into his predatory instincts, which wasn't too surprising when he thought about it.

Dean pushed the urge down again, stretching his tightening muscles. If he didn't get control of this thing then there's no way he'd ever be able to hunt and would more than likely end up being hunted himself; not every Hunter was as understanding as Bobby. The tingling subsided and he was able to consider the coming hunt without feeling the urge. Dad had got wind of a wendigo using Silver Creek as a hunting ground. In the last few weeks two hikers and a local fisherman had been reported missing in the woods and Dean was willing to bet that there were others that hadn't been reported yet.

"Dean!" his dad shouted, waving his arm to call Dean into the motel. Dean grabbed the duffels and locked the impala before nimbly hopping the barrier dividing the Silver Creek Lodge from the parking lot. Dad mouthed the number eight at him and tossed him a motel key. Dean caught the key and headed to the room carrying both duffels, leaving his dad's hands free on the off chance that something happened. Dean opened the room door and let his dad precede him to clear the room before entering and dumping his dad's duffel on the bed nearest the door. As soon as he dumped the bags he started warding the room with salt and protective sigils while his dad opened the area map he'd bought from the motel clerk and started annotating it with the details he'd gathered from his research.

Once Dean had finished their safety precautions he joined his dad at the map. One thing was already painfully obvious, "That's a really big area." His dad looked up at him, "Not enough data points," he replied looking at Dean consideringly, "we could wait for some more missing person's reports to narrow it down or…" He let the sentence hang, "Or?" Dean nudged, he didn't like the idea of waiting, wendigos stored their victims for a while before they ate them but that didn't guarantee any of them would still be alive if Dad and he lingered. "How do you feel about letting the dog out for a while? Maybe tracking from the campsite?" Dean looked up in shock; he thought his dad would hate the idea of Dean changing during a hunt, something he and Bobby had already been discussing. "Sure," he replied, "If you're sure I mean. Uh, yeah okay." His dad nodded, decision made, "Well alright then, let's get this show on the road. I got a present for ya anyways." With that he pulled an odd looking bag from his duffel unfolding it to reveal a large set of dog saddlebags, "Seriously?" Dean cocked one eyebrow, his lips twitching into a grin, "Awesome!"

John watched his eldest son as Dean eagerly explored his new toy, "It's a custom job… we got Caleb to make it." The look that flittered across his son's face conveyed his anxiety without Dean having to say a word, "Caleb's your friend kiddo, nothin' changes that." In fact, John hadn't been at all happy about letting another Hunter in on the Winchester family secret either, but Bobby had called him an 'idjit' and convinced him that Caleb would never betray them. "This is just his first attempt, he had all these crazy ideas for what he's gonna do with the next one. He said he wants you to come for a 'fitting' next chance we get. Anyway that one's pretty much just bags attached to a harness but it should fit everything you need. And it's got a nifty release mechanism you can do yourself so you'll be able to get out of it and change back even if no one else is around." Dean speedily found the found the quick-pull strap in the harness and then placed the whole contraption on the bed. He toed off his boots and they hit the floor with a thump, swiftly followed by his t-shirt. John hurriedly turned around as Dean shucked off his pants and boxers, Dean was getting a little too comfortable stripping off in John's opinion.

By the time he'd turned back his son had been replaced by a long haired german shepherd. Deep brown eyes gazed intelligently over a long black muzzle, large fuzzy triangular ears pricked forward interestedly over a broad brown forehead as John picked up the saddlebags. John's large hands smoothed down the fur on his son's back, tracing the solid black down his flanks until it merged with the reddish brown of his legs. "You got a burr in your tail," he said using the excuse to brush his hand down the fluffy length. He placed the bags on Dean's back and reached his hand underneath to grab the girth strap tickling the belly gently until Dean huffed and wriggled. John would never admit it but once he'd got over the shock of his eldest turning into a dog every so often he didn't mind it so much. He still wished it hadn't happened and worried over the future but he'd always been a pragmatist and damned if it wasn't going to come in handy. He fastened the girth and moved onto the chest strap smiling at Dean's waving tail. "How does it feel?" He asked and the tail wagged faster, "Well alright then, let me just load you up."

He packed Dean's clothes and weapons carefully weighing each item and checking the distribution, a couple of things he deemed too heavy and stowed in his duffel instead. Lastly he folded Dean's duffel bag and stowed that in the saddle bags too. Once he was finished he nodded to Dean who quickly mouthed at the release and tugged, the saddlebags fell to the floor with a clunk. John picked them up, reattached them and then packed his own duffel.

"Caleb did get you one last thing." He said reaching into the bag, Dean looked up excitedly probably thinking it was a new gun, John pulled out a bright pink collar proudly displaying the name "Fluffy". He thought he'd bust a rib looking at the expression on Dean's face, he didn't know dogs could look so horrified, "Just kidding," he chuckled and pulled out the real collar Caleb had designed to go with the saddlebags, it was dark brown leather with a brass nameplate that read Deuce, "One of these days you're going to have to tell me why Caleb calls you that you know." Dean jumped up and put his paws on John's shoulders to get his collar on and then padded to the door as John grabbed his duffel. Dean opened the door with a paw and trotted out into the night his tail waving merrily as John followed him into the woods.

The Hunt was on.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is reading this story. It would be great to get some reviews/ feedback from people. I really want to know what people think of Dean as dog in this chapter. Also I still really need a beta reader so please volunteer.

Silver Creek, Minnesota. August 1994

Dean trotted through the Minnesotan woods headed towards the campsite where Stacey and Denise Whitehead had last been seen, his tail wagging lazily.

It was an easy enough trail and Dean was enjoying the sensation of paws on loam after so much time spent in Bobby's salvage yard. Every so often his ears flicked back as he checked his dad was still following.

The innumerable scents of the woodland had his nose twitching as he searched for the trace they needed. As they came upon the campsite Dean snorted at the sweet smell of putrefied flesh. _Ugh yuck, so that's what a wendigo smells like._ Sniffing along in the wendigo's footprints Dean tried to pick out the scents of the two campers that the wendigo had taken, the smells of sweat and dirt on human skin, the chemical fruity smell of shampoo, terror so strong it made Dean shudder and whine and overlaying it all the stench of death and decay.

The campsite was a mess, the remains of a two-man tent shredded and scattered throughout the clearing. Pre-packaged food was spread around and left conspicuously unmolested although the police had cleared the area two days previously. The wildlife was obviously keeping clear of a more dangerous predator's hunting ground.

As his dad inspected the site Dean lingered by the path fighting two conflicting instincts. On the one hand, the urge to run and burrow into the deepest hole he could find in the face of the terror the wendigo left in its wake and on the other, the intense longing to run and tear down his foe, to eradicate the being that generated such a feeling of wrongness. Dean battled both impulses, forcing the dog down so that his more human side could take over. He focussed on his dad, on the need to work as a team in order to defeat the wendigo, the drive to remain with his pack.

Dean's whirling thoughts settled as his dad looked at him and he walked to the other edge of the clearing where the wendigo had taken the two girls. His tail was still and his ears pointed forward, intent on picking up any sign of the wendigo.

Dean prowled forward, flitting silently through the increasingly dense undergrowth. He had no need to check his dad's position he could hear him clearly following, although he moved stealthily. Dean trailed for an hour and a half before he began to come across more recent signs of the wendigo, the paths criss-crossing each other and well travelled. They'd found its larder.

A faint trace of old chemicals made Dean's nose twitch, leached into the ground from the old silver mine in front of them. Dean stopped, allowing his dad to catch up and nosing him to tell him to stay put. Then he set off again, circling round the overgrown silver mine he found three entrances used by the wendigo, only one of which looked manmade, and a fourth that might fit a person but would need a little digging. He made his way back to his dad, pulled his saddlebags loose and made the change, speaking softly as he dressed. "Looks like the wendigo's out hunting, but this is its lair alright. Three entrances, maybe four." He quickly re-packed his duffel as his dad outlined the plan, checking his weapons he stood and nodded. Ready.

John kept Dean in front of him as they walked into the mine shaft, the wendigo could return at any time and John wasn't going to leave Dean's back unprotected. They kept to the edges so as to leave as little evidence as possible of their presence. The wendigo could probably smell them, but they weren't entirely sure and that was no excuse for bad field craft.

John felt for the reassuring weight of the duffel against his back, stocked with flare guns and Macgyvered aerosols just in case the silver bullets in his colt weren't enough. All of Dean's time spent with Caleb was paying off; at this point he was pretty much a walking encyclopaedia of weapons and was increasingly adept at improvising them when needed. He'd rigged up the mini flamethrowers before they'd left Bobby's using bug spray and candles, leaving Bobby and John both stunned into silence.

Dean paused at a junction, signalling John to stop moving as he scented for any trace that might tell them where to go next, even in his human form Dean's sense of smell was heightened, "The whole place reeks of wendigo, I can't get a scent." Frustration saturated Dean's voice. Some insight tickled at John and he pointed to the right, shrugging when Dean looked at him curiously "Gut feeling." Dean nodded and headed that way, his flashlight constantly scanning as they moved. John followed close behind his own flashlight moving in counterpoint to Dean's. They made their way deeper into the mine, the only sounds the crunch of their boots on the gravel underfoot.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, more please :) Hope you're still enjoying after this update

A/N 2: Thankyou to LeeMarieJack who pointed out that some of the end paragraphs of this chapter didn't actually make sense. These have now been changed and hopefully give a better idea of what's actually happening

Silver Creek, Minnesota. August 1994

Jack froze as he heard the rasp of footsteps coming closer. He strained his eyes in the dark, stretching his whole six and a bit foot frame closer to the sound, balancing on his toes where they skimmed the ground.

He'd been hanging there for hours and his arms and shoulders screamed with the effort of supporting his weight, his hands were long since numb.

The footsteps were coming closer, Jack's frenzied thoughts span, centring on one essential crux, _friendorfoe, friendorfoe, friend or foe_. He took deliberate breaths slowing the turbulent flow and wondered whether it even mattered, if a foe they already knew he was here and if a friend… he hoped for friend, took a deep breath and called out.

He waited as the footsteps stopped and then started again, faster now, less measured. His eyes strained against the all encompassing dark, picking out two figures hurrying towards him.

They cleared the room with military ease, flashlight beams tracking with their weapons, on to sweep and off to move. As they neared Jack the younger one broke off from the sweep and flicked open a knife. The light hovered over his face for a moment and Jack had to rapidly downgrade his age estimate, while the body didn't hold the awkwardness of a teenager, the face still held traces of boyhood. He couldn't have been more than sixteen years old. They were dressed in layers, jackets over shirts over tees. The clothes worn and faded and ill-fitting on the teen, a scarred leather jacket he hadn't grown into and a holey t-shirt he'd grown out of. They were definitely not military, no matter how they moved.

Jack tensed as the boy brought the knife closer and then relaxed minutely as he felt it saw into the bindings holding his wrists. As Jack worked his hands, the tingling sensation rapidly turning to pain as blood flooded back into the abused limbs, the kid froze his gaze fixed over the man's shoulder, "Dad? It's coming."

The man looked over, his dark eyes narrowing as he assessed Jack. Jack had the distinct feeling that he'd been found wanting in some way, like his bird had just been grounded. "Alright kiddo, I need you to get this guy outta here okay. I'll take care of it and catch up." Jack read something akin to panic on the kid's face, "Dad no…" the hushed voice was cut off at a single look from the father, the emotion brutally tamped down "Yes sir." Jack watched the man turn back down the shaft as a shoulder nestled itself under his arm and he was hauled gracelessly to his feet. The kid had quite a bit of muscle on him considering his lean frame, _underfed though_, thought Jack, cataloguing that along with his observations of his two…_rescuers?_

"Can you shoot?" The soft voice surprised him a little and Jack cursed his confused brain, "Colonel Jack O'Neill, US Air Force." He answered, adding the obligatory, "Two L's." Jack could almost feel the cogs turning in the kid's brain as he was re-categorized from 'burden' to 'potential ally'. That's a better feeling, Jack's spirits lifted a little, he still wasn't sure if these guys were friendlies or not but he figured if he could get the kid on his side then his situation might improve and _hey, hands are free, that's an improvement_. "Dean." The kid said, reversing his grip on the… _colt 1911, seriously?_ _It's been ten years since I used one of these,_ and handing it over along with another flashlight, "It's fast. Try and aim for the heart."

The kid eased out from Jack's armpit, freeing his arms to use the gun, then stopped again as if suddenly unsure, "and please don't shoot my dad. He'd be really pissed" Jack checked the load frowning slightly at the odd sheen of the bullets, "What about you?" The kid grinned, white teeth gleaming in the low light, "Don't worry, I got it covered." The kid slung a duffel down from his shoulder with a muted clunk and pulled out a…_supersoaker? Charlie had one of those_, "With a watergun?" Jack was beginning to wonder if this whole thing was an alcohol induced dream but his wrists hurt too much for him to believe that. The kid's only response was another cocky grin and he quickly moved past Jack, taking point as if he'd been doing it his whole life.

Jack saw a flame flicker as the kid lit a candle attached to the front of the watergun with some sort of wall bracket. _Huh, Charlie's didn't have that._ Dean moved forward through the tunnel, flame flickering weakly in the brighter light of the flashlights. The gap between them widened as Jack considered the unusual weapon, and then at an irritated wave from Dean decided to put the whole thing aside for later. Like when he was out of the creepy mine and back in his fishing cabin.

Jack followed Dean through the turns of the mine shafts, rapidly losing his bearings in the gloomy tunnels. Every so often Dean would freeze and listen intently to sounds that Jack couldn't hear and then cautiously continue. Suddenly Dean twisted and sprinted in another direction, the bag bouncing on his shoulder and the supersoaker sloshing in his hands. Jack followed after, skidding to a stop just in time to avoid ramming the kid from behind, and then Jack heard it, the distinct sound of gunfire rattling down the passage.


	5. Chapter 5

Silver Creek, Minnesota. August 1994

Dean's heart pounded in his chest, his tongue heavy and dry in his mouth. Long seconds stretched out as he strained his hearing for a sound that would tell him whether his dad was still alive. He bit the tender flesh on the inside of his cheek, struggling to tame his suddenly tumultuous emotions. _Oh god dad please be okay, please, please dad_, the thought burned hot and bright in his throat, constricting his vocal cords.

The tall air force colonel panted heavily in his ear pulling his focus back to the task his dad had given him. He forced himself to be still, to listen, and to follow his orders, _can't let Dad down, I won't ever let him down._ He uncoiled tight muscles and took a single step, then another. First he would get the colonel to safety then he would kill the wendigo and then he'd go and find Dad, every fibre in his body screamed at him to go and find his dad first but Dean pushed through the instinctive need to protect his family and did as he'd been told.

Jack caught a glimpse of the kid's face, pale and drawn, before he was pushed back further into the tunnel. A strong hand braced against his chest, fingers clawing in his shirt. Jack knew that look, pure determination burned in green eyes illuminated by the flickering candle.

The stench of rotting meat made Jack gag against the burn of bile in his throat. The gravel crunched as Jack shifted, raising the colt. His hands were rock steady even as the adrenaline coursed through his body. They stalked in tandem up the tunnel, Jack's military gait perfectly matched by the kid's fluid stride. The kid took point even as Jack hated himself for letting him; remembering countless other kids he'd seen once and never again, heading off into the steaming jungle. Remembering one kid in particular who never even made it off the chopper, Jack crowded up against Dean heading for the more vulnerable position only to be nudged back with an irritated glare.

They moved slowly and carefully, Jack automatically adopting the heel-toe rolling step he'd been taught by an ornery old Master Sergeant on his second tour. He fleetingly wondered who had taught the kid the same method before he recalled the military bearing of the other guy. The dad was the right age to have served in 'Nam, but there was no way Jack would have ever taught his son something he learned in that swamp. That land of lost sleep, and lost innocence. Not that Jack would ever get the chance to teach Charlie anything now, some father he was. He stopped and closed his eyes briefly against the ache, visions of his eight year old dead on the ground still holding daddy's gun flashed in front of him and he quickly opened them again. God he needed a drink, needed to curl up in a ball of whiskey soaked despair and maybe hold that gun to his own chin, but first there was this boy. This scrawny underfed boy in clothes that didn't fit and bright green eyes that stared right into Jack's soul and found it lacking. This boy whose father was somewhere towards the sound of gunfire that had echoed down the tunnel. This boy that needed him to be okay so they could get the hell out of this damned mine. Jack gritted his teeth and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder, feeling his breathing even out and slow, he squeezed signalling his readiness and they moved off again before suddenly Dean came to a full halt.

Dean heard the wendigo approaching from the right fork, his heightened senses screaming at him to flee or fight. He stopped for a moment, undecided, and then in that instantaneous calculation of speed and distance and vectors and probabilities that made up intuition threw himself on top of the colonel and them both to the ground. He rolled, losing his weapon as a long claw sliced across his cheek; he scrambled away from those deadly blades. Fetid breath slithered over his skin as the wendigo followed, inhumanly fast. It pinned him under its emaciated form and dug its claws into his abdomen. Hot blood slicked his side, the tang of it filling the air. _I'm going to die_, the thought flickered through across his psyche. He felt the impacts almost before he heard the shots, two whumps that rattled his teeth as they entered the wendigo's body. It snarled, hot saliva dripping onto Dean's face and then the pressure was gone.

Jack kept shooting as the man, _monster?_ came towards him. He squeezed the trigger on bullet number six and watched as the dark circle appeared dead centre in the thing's forehead. It kept coming, "Shit." He didn't have time to fire his last bullet and something told him it wouldn't have made much difference. His body was slammed into the rock as long, supernaturally strong fingers wrapped around his neck. After all the death he had seen, all that he had doled out, all the ways he had considered meeting his end up to and including eating his own gun this was how he was going to go. Drifting somewhere just at the edge of consciousness Jack's stubborn streak kicked in and he clawed out, hands meeting leathery flesh as he punched and kicked with all his dwindling strength.

"Hey, ugly!" the pressure around his throat suddenly ceased as the creature turned to confront the new threat, _Damn kid, should've run while you could_. Jack blinked through the black spots in his vision to where the monster towered over Dean. The kid stood, listing to one side and bleeding profusely from where the thing had clawed into his guts. Jack thought he saw the pale glisten of intestine under the kid's hand. He'd picked up his supersoaker again, the candle stuck to the front relit after its impromptu mudbath.


	6. Chapter 6

Silver Creek, Minnesota. August 1994

A burst of flame sprang from the end of the water gun and spattered the creature. Its desiccated flesh crackling and spitting as the fire flared and caught.

An unearthly shriek ricocheted down the tunnel and Jack slammed his hands over his ears feeling like his eardrums might burst. After what seemed an age but was probably seconds the monster fell to its knees collapsing onto the gravel as the flames ate away its withered flesh.

The kid collapsed then too, sliding down the shaft wall with a soft cry. Jack ran over, nearly losing his footing in his haste. He reached to move the kid's hand, "Come on Pyro. Let me see the damage." He pried Dean's fingers loose, his own hands quickly becoming slick with blood.

He scrambled for the kid's duffel, hoping that there were some medical supplies inside, he figured that a kid who brought a homemade flamethrower with him probably at least had some bandages. What he found was a well-stocked medical kit, neatly labelled, and a whole load of weapons that wouldn't have looked out of place in a horror movie. "Jeez kid, I don't wanna meet the rest of your boy scout troupe."

The wounds were deep and long, but not quite as bad as Jack had thought. Four long gashes cut clean across his abdomen where the monster had ripped into him but the evisceration that Jack had seen earlier had apparently been a figment of an overactive imagination.

Although looking at the smouldering pile of cinders in the passageway maybe his imagination wasn't as overactive as he'd thought. "Okay Pyro, I need to pad the wound okay, it's gonna hurt." The kid's head rolled towards him, green eyes unfocussed, "Dad?" Jack's heart clenched, "No kid, I'm not your dad." Dean frowned in confusion, "No. I meant I need to find my dad."

He grasped Jack's shoulder trying to pull himself up, gentle pressure from Jack pushed him down again and the kid actually growled in frustration. "I don't think so Dean, not until we've got those holes patched." Jack was amazed the kid was still conscious never mind cogent, but since Dean was treating his wounds like a minor nuisance rather than the life threatening injuries they really were Jack was going to do the same and if that kept them both calm and collected so much the better.

Dean watched as the colonel stuffed his wounds with gauze, wincing at the lancing pain in his abdomen. He was worried about his dad. That shriek should have brought the old man running but Dean's enhanced ears weren't picking up anything over the rushing blood in his head driven by his pounding heart.

Dean didn't even hear the screech of duct tape as O'Neill wrapped it around his body, the colonel must have found it in his duffel. "Useful thing duct tape." He murmured, feeling the absurd urge to giggle, _held together with duct tape_.

He was feeling a little woozy now that he wasn't focussed on bringing the wendigo down. His eyes drifted over towards the burning pile of bones the wendigo had become, it didn't smell so bad now that the thing was dead. _Shame we don't have any marshmallows_, the idle thought wafted through his mind. Dual barks of laughter erupted around him, _oops did I say that out loud._

"Always thinking with your stomach aren't you Deano?" his dad said as he exited the shaft just to the right of them, "Dad!" Dean reached towards him before getting shoved back onto the ground, "You okay? I heard the gunshots! I wanted to come find you but…you said to get him out and…"

Dean trailed off as his dad rubbed a soothing hand through his short hair, "Just relax kiddo, you did the right thing." The words settled Dean's mind as the actions soothed his body, fuzzy memories of his mom doing the same thing when he was sick having their own sedative effects. His eyes drifted closed as he listened to his dad talk to the man. He flowed into oblivion just as he felt two strong pairs of arms wrapping around his body.

Jack swore as the kid slumped in his arms, becoming dead weight almost immediately as his dad struggled to take the strain. _Okay, enough of this_. Jack figured they probably couldn't do any more damage than the monster had already done to the kid, and since he'd passed out he didn't have to worry about hurting him either.

A brief tussle with the dad to get him to let go and the kid was up over Jack's shoulder in a fireman's carry. "I hope you can walk us outta here Daddy-o, 'cause I've got no clue where I'm headed." He set off walking on blind faith, thankful when a strong hand grabbed his arm and urged him down the right fork.

"John" The gruff voice accompanied the hand, competent and reassuring, if somewhat pissed off. "What?" Jack replied, whilst thinking about angry bears and sticks, "It's my name. Use it."

Jack would've smiled if not for the constant weight of an injured kid on his shoulder. "Colonel Jack O'Neill, US Air Force. Two L's." John grunted behind him, "Marines." They fell into step and walked out of the tunnels and into the night.

Brothers in arms.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N Sorry for the delay in updating. It is exam time, eek! I will try to get back on a regular schedule once they're over

Silver Creek, Minnesota 1994

When Dean woke again morning light streamed through a window and the hard gravel beneath him had transformed into a soft mattress. He didn't recognise the room but he recognised the smell of the man they had rescued, overlaid with recent dirt and smoke, and the familiar scent of salt, gun polish and leather that made up his dad and someone else that he didn't recognise, a sort of chemically smell mixed with metal and paper and just a touch of fruit, _weird_.

He pushed the new person-smell to the back of his mind, as long as Dad was here it was fine. Of course, it would be even better if Sam was here too. Smelling warm and sweet and studious, lucky charms and libraries. But they couldn't bring Sam on a wendigo hunt even if he'd wanted to come, which he hadn't, it was too dangerous. So Sam was with Bobby, safe and snug and…_God that was a girly thought, snap out of it_.

Dean stretched, carefully testing each muscle and joint in his young and frequently battered body. There was a slight twinge when he flexed his back, a feeling of tightness over his abdomen where the wendigo's claws had sliced deep into the flesh. _These painkillers are awesome_, he thought, strangely lacking the muzzy feeling that he generally felt when dad gave him the good stuff.

The last memory Dean had was having his intestines held in with duct tape and a prayer when his dad and the colonel picked him up. Dean smoothed his hand over the large dressing taped to his stomach, idly picking at the edges as he considered whether he really wanted to see the damage.

Gingerly he lifted the gauze, careful of the IV sticking out of his arm. His eyes traced the smooth contour of his abdomen finding no sign of the deep gashes he was certain had been there. In fact the only evidence he'd been injured at all were for long, pale pink scars that marked the passage of the wendigo's claws. _Huh? Must've been out longer than I thought. _

He ran his hand over the smooth skin, the puckered flesh rough against his fingers and then, even as his fingers brushed the scars they disappeared becoming smooth unblemished skin once more. _Crap, that is not normal,_ Dean knew that skinwalkers healed faster than humans, but surely not that fast, not that obviously, inhumanly, fast. _Maybe I've been unconscious a really long time, like weeks, I could handle weeks. Or days, days would be okay. Just so long as it's not one of those heals up right before your eyes guaranteed to get me killed kinda gigs._

"Hey sport, how're ya feelin'?" The colonel stuck his head around the door, bringing his long body through when he saw that Dean was finally awake. "I've just come to check your bandages." Too late Dean saw that he hadn't re-stuck the gauze, his smooth, unwounded abdomen was clearly visible.

Hurriedly he tried to cover it with his hands, only for them to be pried out of the way as O'Neill sat next to him on the bed. "Well, looks like you don't need them anymore. Let me check with the doc and we'll see if we can't get you unhooked as well." He indicated to the large bag of yellow fluid currently being dripped into Dean's arm, apparently unfazed by the complete lack of life threatening injury. _Huh_, thought Dean, _maybe it wasn't as bad as I thought_, "How long was I out?" O'Neill peeled off the rest of the tape and screwed up the gauze pad, tossing it into the waste bin across the room, "Three points! You've been unconscious nearly a week, that wendigo damn near eviscerated you." _So much for that theory_.

Jack smirked at the kid's worried expression and then took pity on him as anxious green eyes rose to meet his and then were hurriedly blanked and replaced by cocky self-assurance, "Relax kid, your dad told me about your 'gifts', had to tell the doc too. You got nothing to worry about from our end." The kid's fake relaxation turned into real relaxation at Jack's words, _helluva lot of trust to put in his dad's judgement._ The grief that always lingered around the edge of Jack's consciousness stirred restlessly as he wondered if Charlie would have trusted him as much if he had ever reached Dean's age. _Thought teenagers were supposed to be rebellious._

The sound of the door opening and closing and two sets of footsteps and voices entering the cabin stirred Jack to action, he pushed Dean back down onto the bed and headed to inform John that his son was awake. "Stay." He ordered the teen in a tone reserved for soldiers and dogs, which now that he thought about it could've applied to Dean in both variations, _he sure isn't a kid anymore._ He left the door ajar, knowing that it wouldn't have remained closed for long in any case. _Maybe now we can let our kidnap victim go._


	8. Chapter 8

Silver Creek, Minnesota. 1994

A/N So Silver Creek, Minnesota is a real place which, as I've never been, bears little to no resemblance to the place in this story. However, in Stargate SG-1 Jack does have a fishing cabin there which is why it's being used as the location for this fic. I was going to try and stay true to the local geography but then I needed a wendigo lair so that didn't quite work out. Now I need a hospital so I'm stealing one from nearby (ish), mostly because I like the name. Therefore sorry to all native Minnesotans, geography is most definitely not my strong point.

A/N2 Here's the chapter that would never end, it just went on and on my friends. It was supposed to be a little exposition chapter but it got much longer than intended. I had a lot of trouble with this chapter as I'm introducing an original character and I'm not really sure about the result. I'd really like reader's opinions on whether the character "voice" works or not. So review please.

**4 days ago, Ambulance bay outside of St Cloud Hospital, Minnesota.**

There was a shifty looking man hanging around the ambulances. Beth wasn't all that surprised, it happened all the time. Men with a funny itch or who had "accidentally fallen" on a light bulb trying to work up the courage to come in and get it seen to. More worrying were the occasional addicts looking for a fix from the controlled drugs box in the back of the ambo or from the hospital itself.

Beth watched the man for a while as she scarfed her sandwich, manners running a distant second to hunger in the race to eat before she was called back inside for her next patient. He didn't look much like her usual Eiffel Syndrome patient, his eyes were too frenetic, his stride too purposeful. Of course, he didn't look much like a drug addict either, he wasn't looking for an unattended ambulance to rob. If she'd seen him in the hospital she would have thought him a frantic parent, functioning on coffee and prayers, but he didn't have a kid with him and he wasn't running inside to find one.

In fact, he was _reconnoitring_, the thought struck her with that immediate feeling of rightness that meant she was spot-on even if she didn't have a clue how. Her eyes narrowed as she shifted on the stone bench beneath her. _Crap_, she glanced down at the puddle of water, which she had so carefully avoided when she sat down, now seeping through her scrubs.

She looked up again, straight into the barrel of a gun. She jerked back with a warm thud and froze as her back came into contact with someone's front. _So much for my situational awareness_, she thought as her consciousness split into two distinct tracks. The dispassionate, rational side of her brain kicked into "emergency" mode, calmly evaluating her surroundings and deciding a course of action. Two men, each of whom could easily overpower her alone, had her trapped between them and they had a gun. _Course of action? Stay very, very still_.

Meanwhile, the other side of her brain was sustaining a litany of _fuckshitfuck_ which was simultaneously unhelpful and completely appropriate to the situation. A large hand slowly descended from behind her heading towards the waistline of her scrub trousers, _ohmygod this can't be happening, _she tensed her eyes still fixed on the gun pointed at her head.

Her trainer clad feet pushed against the tarmac ready to dive away from gun and men and take her chances in a wild sprint towards the ambulance bay doors and the bright lights of safety. The hand hovered an inch or so from her crotch and then quickly tugged her ID badge from her front pocket and retreated again. _Fuck! _She screamed internally her breath coming in sharp huffs. "Dr Elizabeth Montrose, Emergency Medicine." The man behind her read off her tag. "Good," the one in front replied to his partner before addressing her, "I need your help."

The two men practically dragged her to the car, further and further from the safety of the hospital. She was held too tightly to struggle and hustled along so fast that only the dual grips on her arms kept her upright. The gun was still pressed unyieldingly against her, digging into her side just under her ribs, "Look, why don't you tell me what it is you need and I'll try to help okay? You don't need to take me anywhere." Her words went unheeded as they rounded the corner and approached a black muscle car.

The two men wrestled her protesting form into the car before the silver haired one got in the back beside her, having taken the gun from his taller partner. "Wait, wait. Look you need to tell me what's wrong before we go anywhere okay?" She said, thinking fast on her feet as the driver swung into the front seat, "We might need some supplies or something." The dark-haired man looked at her balefully and then slung a bag over the seat and into her lap. She flinched as dressing packs and bags of Hartmann's and saline spilled out. "Oh."

The Doc was taking the situation pretty well all things considered. She was sitting with the bag of medical supplies in her lap, her fist clenching and unclenching on the strap the only sign of her nervousness at being held hostage by two gunmen. Jack leant forward as he spotted the turn off for his cabin ahead. Relaxing back only when John took the turn, gravel crunching under the Chevy's wheels.

The Doc had listened to their story with an intent focus that reminded Jack of mission briefings in 'Nam, making the occasional encouraging noise and asking a few questions in a calm, quiet voice. As John had talked, Jack had watched her, watching them. Her eyes had narrowed microscopically every so often as John span his tale of bear attack and extreme nosocomephobia. The story was full of more holes than a sieve and he wondered how much training it took before docs could keep a straight face the way this one was doing.

Jack shifted the gun in his hand as John pulled the car right up to the door of the cabin. He kept it pointed square at the doc as John got out and opened the door gesturing for her to move first so that he and the former marine could keep her between them. "Look, you can put the guns down okay, it's not like I can go anywhere. Even if I could outrun you I have no idea where we are."

Jack gestured again, a little regretful as he trailed them into his cabin. _Girl's got spunk._ He closed the door behind them. Locking and bolting it before replacing the salt line they had scuffed on the way in. The doc looked at him curiously before John dragged her off to see Dean.

The kid's injuries seemed to be healing well, much faster than Jack would have expected them to. Or at least he would have expected them to heal slower before he found out about Wendigos and other things that went bump in the night, or the morning, or any other time of day. The problem was that while the wounds were healing the kid just seemed to be getting sicker, he was pale and feverish and seemed to be wasting away before their eyes. Worse, his dad seemed to have no idea why Dean was so sick and neither had someone that John called "Bobby".

There was definitely something that John wasn't telling him about though. The fact that John was still sporting cuts and bruises while Dean's had all but vanished was just one more thing that Jack had added to his "who the hell knows" list. A list that was getting longer the more time he spent with John and his son.

Beth entered the sick room where the boy lay, his wasting form small and fragile against the sheets, "How long has he been like this? She demanded, blue eyes flashing in anger, "He was hurt last night," the man replied, "we patched him up but then, this morning he looked like this." She huffed in disbelief and drew the sheet down the teenager's chest, he was emaciated, the skin dipping down into each intercostal space and clinging to his ribs. Above the thick wad of bandages she could see the pulsing of his abdominal aorta.

She removed the bandages as gently as she could, careful of the friable skin when she pulled off the tape, it tore a little anyway and she winced in sympathy as fresh blood welled and spilled. Four long cuts marred the boy's abdomen, like claws had sliced diagonally through the flesh. The injuries were at least a month old, the skin knitted together and the scars pink and fresh.

No way had it only been a day since they had been inflicted. She doubted the boy could walk a day ago never mind take on a bear. "Is there something that could have caused this?" The man asked, he almost sounded hopeful, as if he was looking for an excuse for having treated another human being like this. For a moment Beth forgot the guns, forgot that she was in a room with two men much larger than herself, she forgot everything but the incandescent rage that rose up like bile in her throat at the sight of that poor, starved and damaged boy.

"Yes, there's something that could've caused this! Months of neglect could've caused this! Maltreatment and starvation could've caused this!" The man simply stood as she berated him, his brown eyes wide and dazed as he stared at her in awe. Finally, she turned back to the boy, grabbing the bag of medical supplies and setting up fluids through an IV. She didn't know what to do except hold back the tears that threatened to overshadow her anger. "He needs a hospital."

Beth didn't see the change come over the man, she heard it. His voice was gruff as he began to talk. Gruff and weary, as if he was Atlas carrying the sky on his shoulders and desperate to put it down. He told her about a creature he called a Wendigo and a boy who walked in the skin of a dog and for the first time she heard truth in his words. But everything he told her was impossible.

He told her that the injuries on the boy had occurred at the same time as the cuts and bruises clearly visible on the two men. Fresh wounds, not more than a day old. But everything he told her was impossible.

He turned her towards him by the shoulders and stared in her eyes begging her to believe him, begging her to help his son. But everything he had told her was impossible.

She turned and looked at the boy again, glancing idly at the skin tear she had caused by taking off the dressing, _that's impossible_. The tear was gone, no granulated tissue, no inflammation, just dried blood and whole skin. She traced her fingers over where the wound had been and suddenly the impossible didn't seem so ridiculous after all. _Okay, the impossible just happened. Fuck! _

For a moment Beth closed her eyes, thoughts swirling and spiralling in a tumultuous babble of impossibility and possibility colliding in a flurry of colour. She opened them again, the wound was still gone. _Oh for God's sake! GET A GRIP! _She was an emergency doctor. Her whole life was based around keeping calm in a crisis. She prided herself on being the only person in the room who would keep calm in the event of a zombie apocalypse, _oh my god, could that actually happen?_

She took a single deep breath and then allowed Dr Montrose to emerge in full force, "I need to go back to the hospital." She held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protests, "There are some things that I need. It's not up for debate." For a moment she held the brown eyed gaze and then he nodded and she was almost overwhelmed with relief. _I can do this. I can do this. I can absolutely positively fucking do this._

Beth by-passed triage completely, avoiding all of her colleagues. She wrote a quick note for Gray in the hopes that he could cover for her with their supervisor and maybe she'd still have a job at shift's end. Then she left it next to the coffee pot in the break room and headed for stores. She unzipped the duffel and loaded up as much TPN as she could carry and then added a few giving sets and cannulas for good measure. She slung the bag over her shoulder, staggering a little as the weight pulled her off balance and headed for the exit. Taking a quick detour through the paeds bay to avoid Dr Johnson's bird-like figure. She hurried back to the men and got into the car. Heading, once again, into the woods.

Jack took a peek into the bag as the doc stared out the window and John drove, it was full of large bags of either yellow or milky white fluid. He read one of the stickers, _Intravenous fat emulsion 20%,_ "So, you think this'll work?" The doc turned towards him, "I hope so." John growled from the driver's seat of the impala, "You hope so? This is my son Doc! I want more than hope." Blue eyes flashed, sharp and clear, "You've just plunged me into a world I never even knew existed to play doctor to a kid whose physiology is so different from ours I don't even have the first inkling of a clue how to treat him. Hope is what you've got."

Her tone softened as she looked at John's eyes reflecting in the rearview. "He eats a lot right?" John snorted, "Well, what in hell has that got to do with anything." She waited, "Yeah, he eats a lot." She nodded, "I'd guess his metabolism is pretty fast with the enhanced healing. I mean, healing takes a lot of energy so it makes sense that he'd need to eat more. I think that's what happened, his body was taking all the materials it needed to heal his injuries but he wasn't putting any more in. The TPN should help with that. At least, in theory."

Jack looked at John, it was clear he wasn't going to ask. "TPN?" The doc blinked at him, "Oh sorry, total parenteral nutrition, it's what we give patients that have to go a long time without food or who can't eat themselves. I got a lot of it 'cause we need to replace everything he used to heal and then add enough so he's not starving anymore. Then if, when, he wakes up he'll need a lot of high energy food as the drip can't give him everything he needs."

Jack held out his hand to the doc and shook, he figured it was time to introduce himself.

A/N3 Nosocomophobia is fear of hospitals


	9. Chapter 9

**Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994**

Dean sat up in the bed as the door opened again, "Hey Dean, you're awake!" His dad looked weary, his face rumpled with worry, but his smile was big and bright. He perched on the edge of the bed, scrubbing his hand through Dean's hair. For a moment Dean was four again, wrapped in his mom's arms with his dad smiling down at him. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, just absorbing the feeling.

Then his eyes snapped open as a new presence entered the room. Pale skin, intense blue eyes and messy brown curls swept up in a ponytail was all he saw before she smiled and his brain turned to mush at the blinding light of it. He inhaled and recognised the scent immediately, the same as he'd smelt when he'd first awoke. _Hospitals and fruit_, _pear, milk and honey_.

"Who're you?" he asked, his green eyes meeting hers, his dad always told him intent was in the eyes, be aware of the body but watch the eyes he said. Hers were kind and smiling at him from beneath dark bangs. "My name's Beth, I'm a doctor. Your dad asked me to look after you." His dad snorted and Dean narrowed his eyes, there was a story there.

He glanced at his dad for a moment, puzzled by the way he was watching her, watching him. "You know." He said accusingly, the truth of it dawning on him as sure and inexorable as the earth spinning on its axis. "Your dad had to tell me Dean, I couldn't have helped you otherwise. But I'll never tell anybody else. I promise. Even if I wanted to I can't. Doctor patient privilege."

He stared into her cobalt eyes as if he could see her soul and found no trace of dishonesty there. "Dad trusts you." He stated simply, as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world. Which, for him, it was.

Dean spent the next week eating, sleeping and gradually inching his way out of the bed and towards freedom. Chatting quietly with O'Neill, or cleaning guns with his dad. He didn't clean guns with O'Neill. The colonel couldn't bear to look at Dean holding a gun. He'd snatched it out of Dean's hand the first time he'd seen him with one. Yelled at him as if he was some little kid who couldn't handle a firearm, even though he'd been shooting since he was six. Telling O'Neill that had just made him smell sad, so he didn't let O'Neill see him with a gun.

He enjoyed it. This time spent with O'Neill and his dad and with the doc, Beth, when she came up to check on him. She'd bring food and make dinner. It took her all of five minutes to discover his weakness for pie until he started to feel like Hansel getting fattened up for the oven. He'd filled out again, although Beth still said his body fat percentage was too low, or something.

He looked the same as he did before, but when he told her that, she just tutted softly and told him that kids weren't supposed to have six packs. _I'm fifteen, I'm not a kid! _ Not that he told her that, she brought pie! At least his skin was no longer waxy and sunken. The first day he'd been awake his bones had shown through his skin in all the wrong places and he could barely move without being swamped with fatigue. Now he felt better, felt good, felt ready, and raring to go.

His dad and O'Neill both hovered over him protectively and warned him against tiring himself out. But he wasn't tired anymore. Sure, the first day had been hell, but this morning he was fairly buzzing with repressed energy. He needed to be out, needed to run, and the dog was _bouncing_ around inside him just itching to emerge.

He slipped out of bed and padded through the cabin, his bare feet silent against the varnished wood. He sauntered through the living area, smiling as he saw the pile of newspapers on the breakfast table. _Looks like Dad's planning a hunt._ The dawn light began to track across the floor as he began his search for his dad, or Jack. _Maybe they'll want to come for a run?_

Searching the cabin, he scented deeply and almost choked on the intense reek coming from the other room. His nose burned and his eyes welled at the sting of it. Liquor, stale sweat and grief, dark and deep. Like a tsunami crashing over his head, it filled his nose and mouth and rang in his ears. _Too much, too much_, he turned and ran for the door.

Slipping out of his shorts and into his dog form as he sprinted away into the woods. He felt his own grief surge up inside him; for the mother he lost, for the father he lost, and for the childhood he lost with them. He ran, flying over fallen logs, long grass brushing his belly. He ran not for the joy of it but to escape the feelings that clawed in his throat and behind his eyes.

Every so often, when his dad's grief was at its ebb and there wasn't a demon looming in his mind's eye, Dad would be Dad again. Just every once in a while and, for however long it lasted, Dean could just be Dean. Not his dad's soldier or his brother's keeper. Just Dean.

The past week had been one of those times. One of those halcyon moments. And Dean knew, he _knew_, that if he did everything right, if he didn't make any mistakes, that moment could stretch on. On to the next hunt and the next. Sammy never really noticed the difference, that little light that came on inside Dad. Sam just wanted to be normal, to be like everyone else. All he saw were the hunts, and the moves, and the training every day. But Dean would soak up every moment like a cat bathing in the sun. Normal was overrated, Dean didn't want normal. All he wanted was Sam and his dad. And Dad was best when the light was on.

But the grief would only stay away as long as Dean was perfect and Dean, no matter how hard he tried, could never make perfect last. Then, hounded by guilt for forgetting, even if just for a moment, Dad would go on a bender the likes of which Dean dreaded with all of his being. A reminder that no matter how hard Dean tried it was never enough.

Dean huddled in the root hollow of an old white oak, pulling in his paws and tail as close as he could. He didn't feel the change creep up on him, didn't realise it had until he felt the tears coursing down his cheeks. Naked and alone, he drenched the ground with his grief.


	10. Chapter 10

Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994

John awoke with a pounding head and sand on his tongue. The light shining low through the curtains told him that it was too early for him to have woken naturally after the amount of Jim Beam he'd downed the night before.

He came fully awake and stood, wrangling his spinning head back onto his shoulders as he checked the salt lines. The one inside the front door had been brushed away by its movement. "Dean!" His voice boomed through the cabin, aggravating his sore head, _Damnit_, "Dean!" He shouted again, worry colouring his voice.

He heard Jack's groan from the other room and headed that way. "God damn it Winchester! What?" O'Neill looked worse for wear, but was on his feet with sidearm in hand and ready. "You seen the boy?" O'Neill blinked bleary brown eyes and shrugged, "Nope." He lowered his gun and went in search of Advil. "He's been itching to get out of the house, probably went wandering."

John sat down with a thump, jarring his head in the process. Letting out a growl for his errant son and the world in general, he followed Jack toward the kitchen. Early morning and hangovers did not sit well together, but it'd sit a hell of a lot better if there was coffee.

Jack was downing Advil and water as the coffee percolated, he'd left two on the counter for John, as well as a glass of water. He shook a hand towards them, nursing his own sore head as well as being considerate of the marine's. "Are you worried in general or is there something specific that's got your panties in a bunch?"

John just scowled, emphasising the creases left by a night on the couch. "He's your son John, not a private gone AWOL. You've gotta let him have some independence. Hell you're happy enough leavin' him for weeks lookin' after his little brother. What's the issue?" John guzzled the painkillers and water in quick succession, "How well did 'independence' work for you?"

Jack staggered almost as if struck at the reminder of his son's early and tragic demise, his eyes rapidly searched the other's face. "It's a wonder you've got any friends John Winchester. I'm going fishing." He suited actions to words and headed to gather his gear, leaving John to stew about his absent son._ Kid'll be back in an hour anyway_.

Jack returned with a fresh catch and a better mood around lunchtime to find John sacked out on the couch,_ can't've been that worried after all_. Jack headed to the kitchen to wash and skin his fish, frowning as he smelt burning. "God damnit John!" He turned off the burner under a charred pan, thanking his lucky stars for still having a cabin. "John!"

He went back into the main living area to berate the sleeping Winchester, opening the windows as he went to clear the smell of char from the air. "What you couldn't turn the heat off before you passed out in a drunken stupor?"

He stopped suddenly at the entrance to the room, his combat trained eyes taking in every detail. Winchester was slumped sideways on the couch, as if he'd sat down and keeled over, his silver knife peeking out from his boot where he'd neglected to pull his cuff down over it. There was a stainless steel flask on the table. Jack recognised it, he'd been made to drink from it. That flask didn't contain whiskey, it was John's holy water flask. _Shit!_

Jack's eyes flicked to the salt lines as he reached for his gun. He couldn't tell if they'd been broken as his own entrance had smudged them. His eyes swept the room again, checking for threats before he approached cautiously, kneeling down to check John's pulse. Strong and steady, _Good, guess the idiot's just unconscious_, "Come on Winchester, up and at'em." No response, Jack checked the insensible man over for injuries and finding nothing hurriedly checked the cabin for nasties. He didn't find any. _Okay, so what now?_

Jack hovered over John for a moment and then headed for the door before remembering that he couldn't leave an unconscious man unprotected. _After all something obviously got in despite all the precautions_. He opened the door, carefully avoiding the newly reapplied salt line and, at his best parade ground volume, yelled for Winchester junior. Hopefully he'd be able to figure out what was wrong with Winchester senior.

Jack hovered. He hovered at the door of the cabin and he hovered over John. Dean didn't return. Jack didn't call out again, _no sense in broadcasting my position when I'm one man down and no clue as to what's going on_, but he loitered by the door regardless in the hopes that his gut was lying to him. His gut that told him that Dean couldn't return because whatever had put John down for a nap had done the same or worse to Dean. Jack hovered for three hours and six minutes, and then John woke up like an over eager bugler had just blown "Reveille" right in his ear.

John came to and was abruptly upright and aware and alight with incandescent rage. "How long was I out?" He snapped at the colonel who had hurried over to him as he saw him stir. "It's fifteen hundred." _Damn, eight hours_.

John heaved himself to his feet and grabbed his duffel from where it lay by his feet. He pulled out a revolver and checked its load, good old fashioned lead, he didn't need silver for what he had to do now.

"Ron," Jack raised an eyebrow as John headed for the door, "Another Hunter. He dosed me with a sleeping draught instead of holy water. Son of a bitch knows about Dean."

**Notes:** Sorry it took me so long to post this RL got in the way a bit. As is its wont.  
I'll try and get back on track with the rest of the story but I might be a little slow  
Thanks to Wecantgiggleitsacrimescene for the beta. Minor edit on 2-Aug-15, Roy has become Ron so as not to be confused with Roy from episode 5.16 Dark Side of the Moon. Sorry for any confusion.


	11. Chapter 11

_These things I do, that others may live._

USAF Pararescue motto

**Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994**

Ron regretted this, he really did. Poor John, losing his wife to a demon and now his eldest boy to that _thing_.

It was pretending to be helpless, sniffling in the woods as if Ron didn't know exactly how much evil it contained. Looking harmless and human one minute and then, in the next instant, a ravenous beast.

Werewolves, Leshies, Skin-walkers or Kitsune, they were all the same. They tricked you into caring for them and then tore out your heart.

He knew the pain of it, was intimate with the grief of having your child become something other, something foul. So he knew what he had to do. John was still in denial, thinking he could save the boy from the monster in his skin, but Ron knew better. Dean Winchester was already dead and a monster was walking around in his skin.

The boy was nestled in a root hollow about 300m away from where Ron stood concealed by the foliage. He raised his rifle, taking a moment to appreciate the irony of a Winchester being pointed at a Winchester, before clicking the safety off. He sighted down the rifle scope, directly into a pair of bright green eyes that were suddenly meeting his gaze.

_Damn_, he thought pulling gently on the trigger. The chest he'd been aiming at had already moved as the naked teen dove to the side and rolled. Instead of a silver bullet to the heart all the monster got was an inch long wood chip in the shoulder and then he was up and sprinting away through the woods.

Ron followed the mad dash, skidding down the slight incline from his vantage point to the flatter ground his prey had already covered.

Dean ran through the wood, weaving through the dense trees. He could hear the man behind him, booted feet and panting breaths.

The rough ground was cutting into his bare feet but he couldn't slow or stop. The footsteps were too close behind him, the gunshot still ringing in his ears. He dodged behind a clump of saplings, thin branches whipping against his face and chest.

He lengthened his stride putting on a burst of speed, desperate to get enough distance to safely change before instinct overtook him and he turned anyway. For a moment he wondered if this was how the wendigo had felt. Desperation and fear and the frantic pounding of his heart.

There had been a split second when he'd heard the click of the safety when time had seemed to elongate, when he'd looked straight into the eyes of the old Hunter and seen his own death staring back at him with clear blue eyes. An instant when he knew, there would be no mercy, no kindness, and no reprieve. Then, as he read the intent in the old man's eyes, he'd lunged to the side, leapt to his feet, and run.

Fire burned Ron's lungs, his legs ached and his heart battered against his ribs. The monster was fast, its preternaturally enhanced speed allowing it to gain space as they careered through the trees. But all Ron needed was the right angle, a single shot with a silver bullet could end the monster for good.

He hadn't been able to save his family but one silver bullet could save countless people and this particular bullet had the name Dean Winchester written on it in flowing cursive.

Of course, Ron himself probably wouldn't live long past this Hunt. Not with John Winchester the way he was, John couldn't believe that Dean was already dead so he'd come after Ron for certain. And John was a damn fine Hunter, too good for Ron to take out if he even wanted to. Which was why he'd used the sleeping draught in the first place. Seven drops in the holy water he'd used to test John and he'd been down immediately, leaving Ron a good eight hours to complete the Hunt.

Ron had it all figured out. He'd finished up all his business and set out on his last Hunt. His life wasn't too big a sacrifice to stop this one bit of evil. A 'walker with all the skills of Dean Winchester was a terrifying prospect. One that couldn't be allowed to survive no matter what the consequences to himself.

John would understand that eventually and be a better Hunter for it. Ron checked his watch as he pounded through the wood, four hours until John woke up and came after him. He had to make this quick.

Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been running. He could hear the panting breaths of the man behind him, _Eldridge_, he frowned, not quite sure where the name came from but certain that it's right. Ron Eldridge, Werewolf Hunter Extraordinaire. _Damn!_ Dean only had to go and bump into the best in the business.

He racked his brains as he ran, dredging up information gleaned in dribs and drabs from hundreds of conversations he'd eavesdropped on over the years. Eldridge was a legend, he went after pretty much anything that changed shape, _which explains why he's after you, idiot_.

Ever since his werewolf daughter had killed her mom and two younger brothers he'd been on a one man mission to eliminate every 'shifter, were or 'walker that crossed his path. He was damned successful too. So successful that other Hunters told stories about him like ordinary guys in bars told stories of Babe Ruth, Prefontaine or Ali.

Now, if only Dean could remember those stories he might still get out of this alive.

Three and a half minutes later everything changed. Dean was in the zone. Loping through the wood was almost hypnotizing despite the pain in his bare feet. Then, all at once, he became aware of the lack of panting behind him. The shadowing footsteps had stopped and he wasn't quite sure when.

Suddenly, as the hair on the back of his neck stood up, all the stories of Eldridge came back to him. Ron's modus operandi… _Traps_.

_Too late_, Dean skidded to a stop, digging in his heels in a frantic bid to pivot away from what he knew was waiting. He felt it even as he wrenched away, the cord snaking against his calf and tightening around his ankle. Then he was airborne as the snare hauled him up, the silver threaded rope digging into his flesh.

He screamed as the force jerked his hip. His arms flailing as the world span lazily, a blur of greens and browns.

"Well," the voice like worn gravel floated from the nearby trees, "that was actually a little disappointing."


	12. Chapter 12

Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994

Dean wasn't sure how long he'd been hanging upside down. Naked, suspended from a tree branch in the middle of the Minnesotan woods. The blood rushing into his head made him dizzy and sick and his right hip felt like it was on fire. He could feel blood dribbling down his calf where the silver impregnated rope was digging into his bare flesh.

Eldridge was circling him with his rifle as he spoke, but the blood hammering in his ears made it difficult to focus on the sound. _Is he apologising?_ Dean thought groggily, it sure sounded like it. _Great, as long as he's sorry he's going to kill me._ Dean followed the old Hunter with his eyes, the rope swinging gently as he twisted.

"Please," Dean rasped, his mouth dry, "please, I haven't done anything. I haven't hurt anyone." The Hunter fixed him with that ice cold stare, "But you will."

He swung the rifle behind him and came closer, grabbing first one wrist and then the other as Dean struggled against him. "Do you know how many of your kind I've hunted? All of them looking as if butter wouldn't melt until they come at you with claws and teeth." He bound Dean's hands with more of the cord, before reaching for a silver knife in his boot. "I'm going to do you a favour boy. I'm going to kill you before you break your daddy's heart."

He sliced through the snare and Dean fell to the ground. He tried to roll, so his shoulders took the brunt and not his head, and came up, slightly dazed but on his feet. He darted to the left, away from Eldridge and came crashing to the ground as the old Hunter stomped on the trailing end of the line. The loop of the snare still gripped tight around his ankle and it yanked him from his feet every time he tried to rise.

He pushed himself up onto trussed hands and sat, curling his knees towards his chest and cringing away from Eldridge. He reached down surreptitiously, gently tugging at the entrapping line and trying to wriggle his foot free.

Eldridge picked up his rifle but then seemed to reconsider, placing it on the ground well out of Dean's truncated reach. He approached as he would a frightened animal, slow and steady. Unthreatening but for the blade in his hand and the gleam in his eye.

"Steady now boy, I'll make it quick, painless if I can. I know it's not your fault. You can't help what you are now can you? Can't help being a monster, being evil. But it's alright now. It'll all be over soon." The words washed over Dean as tears welled in his green eyes, his fingers sliding on the blood drenched rope.

He hunched away from Eldridge only to feel calloused fingers gripping his hair. His head was yanked back to expose his neck, as his tied hands scrabbled in the dirt. The silver blade tingled, cold against his skin.

Dean closed his eyes and brought his hands up fast, flinging clods of soil into Eldridge's face. He hooked his bonds over the knife and pulled, sawing through the ropes as he skittered away. Jagged cuts poured blood as the knife bit into the skin of his wrists, but it didn't matter, his hands were free.

Eldridge rolled, taking the cord still ensnaring Dean's ankle with him and, once again, dragging Dean to the ground. He scrambled for the rifle, bringing it to bear just as Dean flung the knife. He threw without thought, without care and without aim; but still it flew true, landing deep in Eldridge's carotid.

"No." Dean whispered, crawling towards the prone form, "No, no, no, please." He reached forward with trembling hands, placing them over the pulsing life blood.

"I'm sorry, please don't die. Please." But the blood was already sluggish, those bright blue eyes dull and empty. He froze unmoving, bloodied hands still clutching at the wound.

He was still frozen five hours later when John and Jack entered the clearing. The naked teen, dressed in blood, cradling the old Hunter in his lap; a perfect tableau of lost innocence.

Dean didn't look up as Jack slid his jacket around his shoulders, instead mindlessly repeating a litany of sorrys under his breath.

"Well…shit." John wiped Dean's blood spattered face, finally stopping the recital. "There goes another damn good Hunter." Jack refrained from hitting John in order to pull Dean closer as he finally raised his head, "Daddy?" The whisper just about broke Jack's heart but apparently John's was made of steel. "Pull yourself together Dean, we've gotta take care of this before anyone else comes traipsing through here." Jack felt Dean flinch before slowly his spine stiffened, "Yes sir." He was barely audible but it still made John turn, his brown eyes softening as his thumb smudged the blood on his son's face. "Dean," father and son's eyes met for a long moment, "everything's going to be okay Dean." Some of the tension left Dean's body and a lifetime of implicit trust expressed itself in two simple words, "Yes sir."

"What the hell is going on here?" The unexpected new voice causing John to turn instinctively and automatically place himself in front of Dean. Jack winced imperceptibly as John's protective instincts exposed Eldridge's body to the full view of the Park Ranger who'd come up behind them. _Fuck!_

The Ranger scrabbled for his gun, "Stay where you are!" he shouted, his voice choked with shock and fear. Suddenly he caught sight of Dean, naked and covered in blood, "You let that boy go!" He sounded wary but determined, a dangerous combination.

O'Neill morphed from irritable drunk to US Air Force Colonel like he'd flipped a switch, calmly raising his hands to the young Ranger, "Easy there son, we were just about to call you. Why don't we all just settle down and…" Whatever he'd been about to say was cut off by the Ranger's increasingly panicked response, "Put down your weapons!"

John figured he had no choice but to comply, hiding the body of a dead Hunter was one thing but messing with law enforcement was another matter entirely. No matter how irritating that LEO might be. He gently tossed his gun to the ground, "Okay, now how about you radio back to despatch and see if you can get some more of your guys out here with some crime scene gear and some clothes for my son."

John slipped into his own law enforcement persona, thankful that he had a useful ID on him. He spoke slowly. "My name is Detective Sam Hagar, this is my son Dean. He was kidnapped early this morning by this man, we've only just found them." John cursed internally as the Ranger's eyes narrowed sceptically, "Sammy Hagar?" Gesturing to Jack, "Who might he be then? Eddie Van Halen?" _Damn Dean and his penchant for hair metal aliases._

Jack straightened every inch of his 6'1" frame. "I would be Colonel Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force." John almost smiled at the mental 'Oh shit' that flittered across the Ranger's face, but then he remembered that this guy was quibbling over names when his kid was on the ground bleeding. _Can't cover it up, time to brazen it out._

Throwing every bit of marine he could muster into his voice, he ordered the man to call his superiors and then added his own jacket to Jack's, covering his son.

Dean furtively snuggled into his father's leather jacket, soaking in the scent of him. He'd refused to give it up even when the ambulance crew had arrived with their blankets and tin foil, using it as a barrier against gentle words and cold hands.

There were cops swarming the place now, hiding Eldridge's body from his view as if the image wasn't already seared into his soul. His dad was talking to the Silver Creek Sherriff, the local detective, who wasn't local at all having driven over from St Cloud, and Ranger Rick, who was still hovering even though the big dogs had pushed him off to one side. All in all it was a three ring circus with no ringmaster, unless you counted O'Neill, whose USAF personality was making itself felt. He put Dean in mind of an ornery old guard dog, bristling whenever someone got to close to Dean with even the faintest hint of a question. It was kind of nice.

He snuggled deeper into his dad's jacket as the detective finally overcame Jack's resistance and came over. Time for the main event.

Dean played it quiet and scared, helped along by the shudders that were still wracking his slight frame. He answered in single syllables and expressive looks; letting them draw their own conclusions of abduction and self-defence. Every so often his dad's or Jack's hand would graze his hair in silent solidarity, their comforting weight warming him more than any blanket.

Finally it was over, the paramedics at last getting their way and sweeping Dean off to the hospital.


	13. Chapter 13

**Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994.**

Beth's first act when she saw Dean earned her a grateful smile as she cleared everyone else out of the room. Her second act won her a look that promised eternal devotion; she brought him food. She would have brought him a lifetime supply of pie if it meant she could avoid what she had to do next.

"Dean? Honey? I have to check you over." He was still shivering a little, despite the cocoon of blankets he'd made for himself. Green eyes flicked up to meet hers and then refocused on his plate, burger and fries disappearing steadily as he ate.

She leant back to perch on the counter until he finally pushed the plate away and grinned that familiar cocky grin. She recognised it for the armour it was and reinforced it with a teasing shield of her own. "You know Dean, you don't have to go through all this trouble just to see me. You could phone. No need to get strung from a tree." The look he gave her let her know she'd done the right thing. No mothering for this battle weary soldier. Tea and sympathy would only garner sarcasm and hostility. "Well, I know how much you enjoy fussing. Besides I don't have your phone number and calling's way too boring anyway. Maybe we could get you a bat signal or somethin' huh?"

Gentle hands prodded and poked as they bantered back and forth, searching out any more injuries and checking his face for pain he hadn't already told her about. Finally she got to the part of the exam she was dreading, she built up the walls around her heart again and asked the question, "Dean, I need to do a complete my examination. Which means…"

She didn't manage to complete the sentence as Dean put two and two together, "Aw, c'mon Doc!" He did a pretty good line in puppy dog eyes, "he didn't touch me in the bad place, I swear." She relented, happy enough to believe him and not traumatise him further. There was no sign of any other injuries besides the deep cuts on his leg, and minor scrapes and bruises on his feet, wrists and shoulders. And what _was_ present perfectly matched his description of what happened, which wasn't what he'd told the police. Of course, he hadn't really told them anything. "Alright, I believe you. Just let me know if anything else hurts okay?" she accepted his nod and sent his dad in to see him.

John entered the cubicle with a sigh, taking in his son's pale form cossetted in a pile of hospital blankets. He frowned, his thoughts on the horde of cops hovering outside. "We're gonna have to stick around for a while kiddo. Need to get you cleared with the law and then hope like hell no Hunter connects the dots. We'll get Bobby to put it around that he was killed in the Wendigo hunt maybe huh? Gotta get any thoughts of you outta their heads that's for sure…" He paced the cubicle as Dean's eyes followed his steps, six by eight just like a prison cell. John barely registered his words as they poured out of his mouth, fatigue and anxiety finally catching up with him. "…We're not safe unless we can keep you off the radar."

His son's quiet, "Yes sir" threw him off for a second as he wondered what he'd been saying. Nevertheless he gave a sharp nod, Dean always knew what was needed, always understood what John meant. He drew the mound of blankets up to Dean's chin, figuring he could get away with it in this dire situation. He encouraged Dean to close his eyes, stroking a hand through his hair like he was a toddler again, "Get some sleep Deano."

They released him the next morning, after a night of observation. They couldn't really stay any longer in case some diligent nurse attempted a dressing change and found the wound miraculously healed.

They left with Dean in a wheelchair, faking a limp when he had to transfer to the impala, and enough bandages to restock their med-kit which was in its habitually half empty condition.

Dean was fidgety under the solicitous gaze of the staff, made worse by the fact that he'd have to maintain his wounded façade for the various law enforcement personnel and his dad's constant chafing for the next Hunt which had to be postponed. And it was all his fault. His fault Eldridge had come after him, his fault he'd been caught, and his fault there'd been a body.

_Oh God I killed him_. The thought snuck up on him again. Bad enough were the blood soaked dreams that caused him to toss and turn in the hospital bed, but now the flashes were in the day too. Every time he closed his eyes he was haunted by Eldridge's lifeless corpse littering the clearing. Every door closing was the thunk of the knife as it thrust home, the arterial spray like red rain, splattering against his skin. He could taste it in his mouth, the hot iron tang. Could feel Eldridge's lifeblood gurgling against his hands.

Jack watched as Dean zoned out in the car. Imagining what it must be like for the kid in the aftermath. If only he'd looked for Dean instead of going fishing, given him a little less space and a little more protection. He frowned as he remembered the soft words Dean had uttered to him when John was busy with the Ranger.

Dean had still had his hands clasped over the jagged knife wound in the old man's neck. Like he was afraid moving his hands would make it somehow more real. He'd been shuddering, whether from cold or shock Jack wasn't really sure. Then he'd looked up into Jack's face; his green eyes welling with tears and asked, "Is this how it starts?"

Jack had figured he'd missed something, some previous conversation that would have clued him in on what Dean was asking, "What's that kiddo?" The kid's voice had nearly broken then, cracking as he fought back the tears that threatened to fall. "Evil. He was human, a Hunter. He spent 20 years killing monsters. Like me."

Jack had gripped Dean's shoulder then, hard enough to make the kid wince as he squeezed the bruises. "You're not a monster Dean." Dean had finally lifted his gore soaked hands, staring at the drying blood ingrained in his nails and the creases of his palm. He'd scrubbed at it fruitlessly, smearing it into his skin. "I didn't even hesitate, I saw an opening and I took it. I killed him. I killed a man!"

Jack had sighed then, a single breath against the weight of a boy's innocence vanishing in a whirlwind of blood and death. "Do you think I'm a monster? Or your Dad?" Dean shook his head violently, "We've both killed people Dean, it was him or you and I'm for damn sure glad it was him."

At that point, John and the Ranger had finished with their bickering and come over and Jack had stepped away from Dean. He wasn't sure if the whispered words that had floated over to him next were real or imagined. "I'm not, I'm not sure at all." When he'd turned Dean had been facing the other way, wrapped in a blanket from the Ranger's car.

Maybe it had just been his imagination, an illusory voice on the wind, but Jack couldn't help but look for the owner of that voice now as he looked at Dean staring out of the impala's rear window. Look for that lost little boy who thought he was a monster. Evil. That he deserved to die. _Not on my watch._

The simple determination slithered into his soul, straightening his spine and overcoming the grief that weighed him down. He'd been lost since Charlie, drowning in wave after wave of misery and guilt. _Not anymore,_ he vowed silently. He wouldn't be complicit in another tainted life.

Come hell or high water Dean was coming through this. Back to a place where he could be that bright spark again, taking on the world with a cocky grin and a homemade flamethrower.


	14. Chapter 14

**Silver Creek, Minnesota, 1994**.

Time crawled by for Dean, confined to a chair just in case the cops came snooping. It was frustrating, having to sit down all the time when he was perfectly capable of moving around. He spent most of his time "upgrading" a pager for Doc Montrose, carefully pasting on strips of batman comic.

He was using a box knife over the slots for the speaker and the battery flap when she strode through the front door, tumbled brown curls cascading over her shoulders.

She draped herself on the couch next to him, boots dangling off the arm, "And how's my medical marvel today?"

She saw the answering grin creep onto his face and swung herself upright, gently bumping his shoulder with hers, "Quite the penchant for arts and crafts you've got there Dean." She teased.

"Shuddup," Dean fought the rising blush and bumped back against her, "Batman is badass." She stood and made her way to the kitchen where the enticing smells of dinner were wafting from, her laughter ringing through the cabin.

"Hey Dean," she waited until his eyes met hers, "Batman is _totally_ bad ass."

He got to his feet with a groan and followed her through into the kitchen, tossing her the finished pager with a flourish. "Bat signal. You are now officially the Hunters' Doc on call. Hope you know what you signed up for."

He strolled past her and headed into the bedroom. His stuff was all packed into the panniers that Caleb had made him. The supple leather saddlebags fitted his dog form perfectly and had a clever tightening and release mechanism so that he didn't need human help getting them on and off.

It was almost as if Caleb had seen the future. As if he had known that Dean would need to leave his family behind one day in order for them to be safe.

He shrugged off the melancholy thought and went out to savour the time he could spend with his family and friends. He wished Sammy was here as well but he'd make do with what he had. After all, it was the most he'd have for a while.

Three days after the cops officially closed their investigation, the time came for Dean to strike out on his own. He didn't tell his dad. He just wrote a short note and snuck out in the middle of the night. _Sure dad'll be pissed but it is better this way… safer. At least I'm saving him the trouble of telling me himself_.

Ghosting through the woods like a wolf, he'd headed south west. The loam soft and soundless under his paws

He was six days and two hundred miles down the road in Hartington, NE, when the impala pulled in at the rest stop he was using to wash. He hadn't been in his human form for two days straight and was feeling distinctly grimy. He was in the middle of brushing away the dog breath when he heard the familiar rumble.

Grabbing the panniers and his collar he headed outside wondering why his dad had bothered to track him down. The way Dean figured it, he'd taken the initiative and left before his dad had to force him away in order to protect Sammy. Dad would probably yell for a while and then they'd say the goodbyes that Dean had been trying to avoid.

If it had just been him and dad, maybe he could have risked the hunters catching up with them. But there was nothing on this earth that would make him put Sammy in danger, certainly not some chick flick sentiment like homesickness. He'd never even had a home to be sick _for._ Everyone was better off if he was on his own. He'd even considered going to Bobby but didn't want to put the old Hunter in danger.

So what if he was a little lonely, _not lonely…just not used to it… yeah right Dean, keep telling yourself that_. _Stupid pack animal instincts._

The grit of the forecourt crunched under his feet as he slunk around the back of the gas station. He stood with eerie stillness as he watched John harass the store clerk.

John shoved Dean's photo under the employee's nose. It was the only one he had, creased where he'd had to fold it to fit into his wallet. Bobby had taken it last Christmas and forced it on him, calling him an 'idjit' when he'd complained about the potential for leaving evidence behind.

In the picture Dean and Sam were sharing Bobby's old couch; Sam, with that studious expression he always got when he was doing his homework, furiously writing on a notepad and Dean with a book, of all things, although John recognised it as one of Bobby's tomes on demonology. Neither of them were looking at the camera, both completely unaware of the photo being taken, caught in a quiet moment of brotherly harmony.

The attendant took the photo off John with a frown, flicking long bubble-gum pink bangs out of his eyes as he glanced warily up at the taller man.

The wiry teen paused and licked his lips nervously, "Why are you looking for him?" John's narrow eyed glare had the kid straightening his spine and lifting his chin. He swallowed convulsively. _Kid knows somethin', hasn't even asked which one I'm looking for_. It was the first spark of hope he had felt in 6 days.

He had never expected Dean to be gone from the cabin. He'd had a few minutes of _ohshitnotagain_ before he'd spotted the note on the kitchen table. The note that said it wasn't safe. Not safe, as if he hadn't spent the last ten years keeping his boys safe. As if he hadn't taught them to shoot and fight. As if he hadn't drilled it into their heads to always salt the windows and doors and sleep with a knife under the pillow. _Didn't keep him safe though did it_. The traitorous thought whispered through his mind as he stared down the store clerk.

"He's my son."

The kid tried to regain his composure and crossed his arms, raising a sardonic eyebrow. "Why'd he run away?" John was so wrapped up in trying not to punch the cocky little bastard that he almost missed the slide of icy blue eyes towards the forecourt window. He turned automatically only to find Dean leaning against the impala, shading his eyes against the morning sun.

The spark of hope burst into flame, his feet barely touched the floor as he sprinted out of the store.

"God damnit Dean, what the hell were you thinking?"

His father had clearly spent the last six days building up a good head of steam because he didn't let Dean get a word in to answer despite the furious question. Dean hunched his shoulders and waited for the tsunami to subside. It didn't, or at least the ear splitting tirade was replaced by an equally thunderous silence. The ominous quiet continued in the impala as they drove up the I-29.

He struggled to find the words to explain the worry he felt for Sammy and for his Dad. That every minute he spent with them was just another minute he was putting them in danger.

"Dad, I…" All the words he wanted to say were stuck in his throat. He could feel them lodged just behind his Adam's apple. The oppressive atmosphere in the impala forcing them back into his gullet. He wanted to pour out his heart, to say all those chick flick things that he would make fun of Sammy for. But he couldn't find the words. Instead he let the silence wash over him - an inexorable tide that left him floundering for an explanation.

The son and the brother in him, and yes the dog in him too, wanted to stay. To forget about Hunters and Demons and things that go bump in the night. But his time as just a son and a brother had ended in flames on a chilly November night ten years ago. Dean was a protector, a soldier, and now, he had become a threat. Maybe he hadn't done it the right way but leaving was the right thing to do. It was the only option. His last act of fraternal devotion. To leave and keep Sammy safe.

When he finally forced words out his voice squeaked in a way it hadn't since he was thirteen. His dad received him in silence. He continued to drive in silence. Once they reached Singer Salvage he left the car in a silence so profound that Dean wondered if he'd ever hear his dad's voice again.

Bobby's truck was parked haphazardly in the yard along with an unfamiliar silver sedan. The presence of an unfamiliar car made him hesitate for a moment before he entered the house, but the smell of jet fuel and sand once he was inside made the owner of the sedan pretty obvious. _Jack's here. _Dean hurried his steps a little in his dad's wake, summoned by the angry line of the older Winchester's shoulders.

The rest of the day had gone just as badly. Dad had shut himself in Bobby's library straight away, slamming the door with a resounding thud. Sam had barely spoken to him, stalking off and muttering something about a "normal family" that even Dean's doggie-enhanced hearing couldn't catch. He hadn't expected Sammy to be pleased but he thought maybe he'd get a hug. Some sign that Sam had missed Dean as much as Dean had missed him. Even Jack and Bobby hadn't waited long before disappearing. But at least they heard him out over breakfast before they too left him to his own devices. They'd obviously read his note. That was demonstrated when Bobby cuffed him about the ear, before he'd even opened his mouth, and called him, "Idjit" in that frustrated tone he seemed to reserve for Winchesters. "You don't think I can handle a couple of ornery Hunters with no more sense than God gave a fencepost." Jack had watched in silence as Bobby had waxed lyrical about the stupidity of Winchesters in general and the stubbornness of one in particular while flipping pancakes and burning bacon. They'd departed with one last, "You're staying and that's final" thrown over Bobby's shoulder.

Dean had "gone dog" pretty quickly after that - ironically finding solace in the very thing that had caused this mess in the first place. He'd padded outside where he had been greeted by a pair of over excited bundles of fluff. At least the dogs still liked him, _well except for Cheney but he's a grumpy old fart anyway_.

When Jack came and found him he was curled up in a stripped out old Ford with Aspin's head on his flank. It was warm and comfortable and he didn't have to think about all the ways he'd screwed up his family. Jack was following in the gambolling footsteps of Bobby's latest addition, Perry, who was leading Jack right to him and looking inordinately pleased with himself. _Traitor._ The GSD puppy scrabbled at the car door whining, and barking. The racket was swiftly followed by excited yips as Jack took pity on the pup and lifted him through the window. Then Dean had a face full of delighted puppy as Perry burrowed into his chest. His ears flopped back and forth against Dean's muzzle and he grumbled irritably. Jack leant against the frame and ignored the disgusted look Dean shot him as he began to talk.

"I know you think you can't stay with your family, but running away isn't the answer either Dean. It isn't safe out there on your own kiddo." He held up a hand forestalling the growl of disagreement, "I don't care how tough you think you are, you're still only 15. So you can shut up and listen. I've had an idea."

Jack continued outlining his plan, "The military is always looking for people like you Dean. Smart, innovative, able to think outside the box. They'd be lucky to have you and I think you'd be happy with them too. The Airforce is…" _No way is dad gonna be happy with that, Semper Fi all the way._ Dean could feel himself reluctantly gaining more interest as Jack spoke. He could have a place again, people who needed him. Sure he'd miss his family, but they'd be safer without him.

"I take it you're happy with this plan?" Dean's tail stilled from where it had been beating against the door frame and he chuffed, embarrassed.

The man smiled at the young dog's very human expression of chagrin, "There is one more thing Dean. I've been talking with Bobby and I know you've been working damned hard to make all your teachers lose interest in you. But that has to stop. From now on you're going to be working your butt off to get your grades up so you can get accepted into the Academy." He sent Dean a glare at his disbelieving whine, "You're smarter than you think you are kid. Now it's up to you to go and prove all those pompous blowhards wrong."

Jack walked through the junkyard, shaking his head incredulously at the hour-long conversation he'd just had with a dog. Or a kid in the shape of a dog at least. This whole skinwalker thing confused the hell out of him. If he hadn't been stone cold sober he'd have thought that he'd hallucinated the whole thing. _Guess you never know what kind of creature is lurking around. _He froze at the thought and came face to face with the oldest of Bobby's three dogs. The Rottweiler, Cheney, was sitting in the bed of Bobby's truck, his head cocked in interest, _Bobby wouldn't keep anymore skinwalkers around right? _His thoughts turned to Aspin, the German Shepherd who had snuck onto his bed last night._ Nah. _He dismissed the thought. One skinwalker was more than enough for Bobby.

He wondered what John would make of the plan he and Bobby had come up with. He'd probably fly off the handle, but Jack honestly thought that the military would be a good career for the kid. For the first time since Charlie died he felt connected with the world again. He had three years to get things in place, to give Dean the future Charlie never had the chance for. With the ingenuity, intelligence and sheer grit Dean displayed, he just knew that the kid would be a credit to any service that managed to grab him.

Even better, Dean would benefit from the military too and most likely come back a changed man. He resisted the quirk of his lips that threatened to show as he walked back up the porch steps. He'd most likely have to bash some thick skulls together to make this plan work, but he had absolute faith that he'd manage.

For the first time in a long time Jack O'Neill had a smile in his eyes as he sauntered along. _Win-win_.

A/N: The prequel to this story is called "Instinct" and can be found here s/10627883/1/Instinct, The sequel is called Ashes &amp; Temples and can be found here, s/11866012/1/Ashes-Temples


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